Fine Sand

And she’ll always slip through your fingers like too fine sand ground by life.

Ground by laughing too hard and grieving too dark. Eroded by the water falling from her eyes and the storms raging in her mind. Carried away by the gentle touch of the people she’s loved and the plundering hands of burglars – the ones who break into bodies rather than cars to prey on self-esteem rather than cash, desperate for the wrong kind of love. Every little grain being shaped and reshaped by loving whispers and hateful yells, filled with gratitude and fear.

The finer the sand, the softer it gets. The more pleasant to touch, the more troublesome to hold. The easier to fly like dust in the sky, the harder to keep all the tiny pieces together.

The finer the sand, the higher the density. The more substance, the less air. The heavier to carry, the stronger to build. You can build castles in the sky with it or even out the unsteady ground that leaves you unstable.

Fine sand is hard to see but widely scattered. It easily gets lost in all the places in between but if you look closely you’ll find it everywhere.

Fine sand is like her tender soul shimmering dimly in the most lustrous colours hidden away in the darkest little corners. Not screaming for attention but only visible to the ones who try. The ones who put in the effort to see all the shades of hope glimmering in her eyes. The ones who know how to appreciate the fine things, the hidden treasures. The ones who aren’t afraid to go on a quiet quest to discover the millions of tiny fractures trapped in the sinister back alleys for only them to see.

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